Nightmares, Rain, and a Leaky Roof
by Katerina Riley
Summary: All John wanted was a quiet night in. Instead, Sherlock dragged him into the middle of nowhere to solve the case of the man who was "Gutted like a fish!" To make matters worse, the hotel had a leaky roof. And it was raining. John's bed was completely soaked before the rain had fallen for a full hour. There was no way he could sleep there! But aren't there always two beds in hotels?
1. Chapter 1

**This idea came a few weeks ago (I forget what prompted it…something on DeviantART I think) and I had written most of it out…but then school got in the way -_- At least I (finally) finished it!**

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_Nightmares, Rain, and a Leaky Roof _

For the past ten minutes, John had been staring at a particular spot on his bed. Well, not really _his _bed; it's the hotel's bed. Though technically, it's John's bed for the night. For two nights– however long it takes for Sherlock to solve this case. So most likely for this one night. Of course, John would rather be _in _the bed rather than staring at it, but what can you do when the hotel apparently has a leaky roof?

_Why did it have to be raining? _John asks himself hotly. _Out of all the times we book a hotel with a bloody leak, it just _has _to be the time it's raining. _

"John, what are you staring at?"

Even without turning around, John knows the exact position Sherlock's in. Sitting up straight, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands will be tucked underneath his chin in that prayer-like pose, and lastly his head will be staring straight ahead.

John turned his head to face his companion. He'd been exactly right in detailing Sherlock, except for one thing. Sherlock's face was looking at John, tilted in a questioning way.

_Oh course he's looking at you, _John thinks. _He asked you a question idiot. _

Sighing, John turns his face around to stare at the bed once again before he answers. "A problem Sherlock. I'm staring at a problem."

John waits for Sherlock to use his magical deducing powers to kick in– though Sherlock would of course disprove and scoff at the notion of 'magic'. And in three, two o–

"Ah, you're talking about the leaky ceiling." Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second before he spoke again, "You know John there are two beds in this hotel room."

John looked over at the consulting decretive; at his flat mate; at his recently non-deceased friend. Had it really been only a few months since Sherlock popped back into his life. (Literally popped; it's a long story.) Before John met Sherlock, he had nightmares about the war. After, the nightmares had decreased (but they were unfortunately never gone for good). But when Sherlock had 'died,' John's nightmares returned. Only this time, it wasn't images of the war the army doctor kept reliving; it was the moment when Sherlock fell off the building. The moment when he called John telling him that the lie was the truth. The moment when John tried to reach for Sherlock's hands, but kept having people push him away. "It's for your own good," they had said. _For my own good my arse, _John thought acidly, both then and now.

"…I know Sherlock."

"I won't mind sharing. Probably won't sleep anyway."

John looked at his friend with a sort of resigned annoyance. "Sherlock, you need to get some sleep. It's been, what? A week since you've slept?"

"It's only been nighty-eight hours, John; barley over four days. And you're avoiding my statement."

"It would-"

"No one else is in here John," Sherlock said dryly. "You need to sleep and I need to deduce. But neither one of us can do anything so long as you stand there like a complete and utter fool, watching the puddle on the bed get larger. For the both our sakes, please just get in my bed."

John blinked. He stood there for a moment longer, vainly trying to think up an excuse, before finally obliging the younger man's wishes. John suddenly became acutely aware of his pajamas. A white tank top with red and black plaid pants. Sherlock was wearing his thin grey T-shirt with his equally thin blue-ish pants. As John crawled into bed, staying at close to the edge as possible, he wondered why he was suddenly aware of his night attire.

"What did you say?" John rolled over partially to look at the murmuring man beside him.

Sherlock didn't answer him, but he appeared to be talking to himself. John caught some words and understood immediately. He was thinking about the case. After all, that was why they were out here, in this bloody hotel room in the middle of _nowhere_.

"Change of scenery will do me good, John," Sherlock had said. "And besides, this was the last place our Mr. Nepley was before he was found gutted." John was just grateful that this wasn't the exact _room _where he was found. That was still under quarantine.

Rolling his eyes, John turned over so his back would once again face Sherlock. Knowing that it wouldn't faze the concentrating detective in the slightest, John reached up and turned off the lamp. Of course, Sherlock made no response signally he had registered the sudden lack of light.

"Night, Sherlock," John whispered to the darkness.

It was hours later, when he had finally solved the case, did Sherlock even realize the cool darkness all around him.

"Wait, John did you say something?" He turned to the man in question only to find that he was fast asleep. John was now lying on his back, one hand raised above his head, the other laying near his side; a position Sherlock identified with as when John entered (or was currently in) REM sleep. He looked completely at peace. In other words, no have nightmares plagued him as of yet.

He knew all about John's nightmares. Sherlock even knew that John knew his flat mate had discovered the nightmares. Really, it was difficult to hide anything when around the consulting detective. But nightmares were just filed under the "Do Not Discuss" list in Sherlock's brain. He never had one until he met John. All of the items on the list are relevant to John in some way or another. Either it was directly related, or indirectly (something that John had explained was 'not good' to say).

Nightmares were the top of the list. Living with an ex-army doctor, Sherlock would've been surprised if John _didn't _experience some form of nightmare from his past life. The next thing on the list was one that had formed only recently. Ever since he returned, Sherlock noticed that John got into the peculiar habit of touching him. To the common eye it was very discreet, but to the trained Sherlock Holmes, it practically screamed bloody murder.

At first, Sherlock tried to ignore it, figuring that John was only doing it to remind himself that Sherlock was actually alive. John would discontinue it eventually. But as the months passed, John didn't quit. And Sherlock went from wishing John would stop to not caring to finding it oddly comforting and strangely...endearing? The frequent shoulder bumps while walking, the seemingly random hands-on-the-shoulder, even the three times John accidently fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder while watching late-night telly felt normal. This happened in the span of five months.

Watching John breath and the peace that was clearly evident on his face brought a smile to Sherlock's lips. He couldn't fathom why. He had always liked John. He was dubious at the first meeting of course (he'd already been through too many failed flat mates), but when John had described his deducing as 'amazing' and actually enjoy the thrill of the chase, Sherlock's irrational heart immediately took to liking the doctor. His rational brain soon followed.

Seeing John strapped into a bomb –no matter how terrifying it was– actually helped Sherlock understand something. John was truly special. He was a once-in-a-lifetime type of person and Sherlock was _not _going to let anything happened to him. That was the first time Sherlock acknowledged John as to what he really was: Sherlock's friend. Maybe even best friend. Sherlock's never had a friend –let alone a best friend– before, so he wasn't entirely sure what you're supposed to do with one. It had taken him months to actually tell John to his face that he considered John his friend, and that was partially from the illogical fear of the bloody _imaginary _ hounds.

Tentatively, Sherlock brought his hand to John's hair and stoked it soothingly. They had a strange relationship. People often mistook them for lovers, which is actually feasible considering how they are so regularly around each other. More so than regular flat mates or regular friends. But they're not lovers. First off, Sherlock despises being touched by any other human beings other than necessary gestures. They're so boring and dimwitted. (John is excused since he's not dull –or stupid– in the slightest and his constant touching is a reminder of a good thing: Sherlock's life.) And second off, as John so blatantly repeats, Sherlock's flat mate and friend is heterosexual. Even if Sherlock wanted John in that way (which he doesn't), it wouldn't have mattered since John wouldn't have been interested and might've even been scared off.

(If that's the case, why is some part of Sherlock mind –the irrational part that he's always careful to lock and seal tightly up– insistent on not following his 'married to my work' rule?)

"Sherlock…" John murmured.

Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand. Had he woken John? That would be under the 'not good' category– waking someone by running your fingers through their hair, right?

But no… John wasn't awake. Though it was dark, Sherlock's eyes managed to catch the precise movements to understand what was happening. Fists clenching and unclenching, breaths coming out in small puffs, jerking movements with the body (particularly the head), eyes scrunched up, and a hushed, panicked voice… John was having a nightmare.

"Don't…jump…"

And you didn't have to be clever Sherlock Holmes to know what it was about.

"Please," John all but whimpered.

"Shh John," Sherlock said quietly. "It's…" He trailed off. How were you supposed to comfort people at a time like this? Hug them? No, John wouldn't want to be held. Let them be? No, that seems cruel.

John's breathing become more erratic. His hands no longer clenched, but trembled. It was only a matter of time before–

"NO!" John shouted, bolting into a sitting position. His breathing was heavy, his eyes were on the verge of tears, and his heart was beating a mile a minute.

"It's okay John," Sherlock said awkwardly. "I'm here; I'm alive."

John turned to face the man who had just died in his dreams. He was still panting.

"Sherlock…?" He whispered. Slowly, John reached out. It was almost as if he were scared to touch Sherlock. Like Sherlock was only a figure in the wind and as soon as it was disturbed, the imaginary being would disappear. However, Sherlock was not imaginary. And as John's fingers felt the fabric of Sherlock's clothes and the feel of Sherlock's hand atop his, John knew that the nightmare was over.

"Sherlock," John breathed out, his voice no longer full of panic. "Sherlock!" Without warning, the doctor flung his arms around the consulting detective. Sherlock could feel a growing patch if wet forming on his shoulder.

_John's crying…_ He realized.

Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock embraced his friend, rubbing his back in a circular motion. He hoped this was good. He hoped he wouldn't make a mistake. He never knew what to do when it came to regarding human emotions, even if it was John. _Especially _if it was John.

The two stayed there for a long while; John draped over Sherlock, who was trying to comfort his friend. When John's cries were subdued, Sherlock discovered that John had fallen asleep once again. Even though he was in a deep slumber, John's arms were still wrapped tightly around the detective. Without waking him up, Sherlock attempted to wriggle out of the doctor's grasp, but he only tried in vain; Dr. Watson was a very strong man. Surrendering, Sherlock slowly eased down into the bed and shifted until he was in a more comforting position.

John's head was tucked under his chin, tilted up slightly so the arch of his nose was touching the nook of Sherlock's neck. Laying prone (and only partially on Sherlock), one of John's arms rested atop the detective's chest –his hand stopping just above Sherlock's shoulder– while John's other arm was flexed and pressed tightly between one side of his body and Sherlock's embracing arms. It felt so strange, touching someone in this way –Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John, almost as if he were protecting the army doctor– but Sherlock found he didn't mind. Not really. This was John after all. John had always been different. The man had a patience that would've make Mother Teresa seem like a child in their "terrible two" stage, which was probably how he tolerated Sherlock at all. Secondly, there was an air of mystery around Dr. Watson. So full of paradoxes, that man. He became a doctor to help people, yet he also joined the army. He acts just like all those boring human beings, yet has nearly the same sense of humor as Sherlock. ("We can't giggle at a crime scene!") John was a mystery. And if there was anything Sherlock loves, it's a mystery.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock welcomed sleep. Lying here, with John in his arms, Sherlock could think of nothing else he wanted more. John was with him, why would he even _need _more?

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**I was going to add more, but I like how this ended. If anyone wants, I might write up a second chapter to make this one-shot a two-shot. Only if anyone wants to see what happens in the morning ;D**


	2. Chapter 2

**By popular demand, here's the second (and final) chapter! This one came out quite a bit longer than the last one. Actually, I think this is my longest chapter ever! :D Hope that suits you all just fine ;) Oh, and I'm not sure about Sherlock and John's ages, but I just picked a number for Sherlock that seemed to suite him, which was 36. I hope Sherlock's not too OOC :/**

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_Nightmares, Rain, and a Leaky Roof_

John's never felt more warm and comfortable waking up than he has now. He's not sure why. It… Did it have something to do with his nightmare? He has the strangest feeling the answer is _yes_. John remembered waking up in a cold sweat and feeling terrified. Everything had been a dream. Sherlock was still dead. John was still alone. The world had stopped turning. (For John anyway.)

A bloody image of Sherlock is forever embedded in John's mind. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees it. That's why he started making contact. Whenever John's hand (or shoulder or foot) touched a physical part of Sherlock's body, John was reminded that the nightmare was over. But it was the times during the night –when he was watching Sherlock fall over and over again– when John thought it was actually real. Last night had been one of the worst. Gasping awake, John had truly believed the dream was reality and reality was just a dream.

But wait.

No.

When John woke up, Sherlock was there. He felt real; alive. Sherlock was alive.

A sigh of relief escaped John's lips as he snuggled down closer into the mattress. Everything was right with the world. Sherlock wasn't dead and John wasn't losing his mind. John could now, in a good conscious, start to relax. He let his mind turn tranquil, which in turn, relaxed his body even further.

If he could, John would stay here, in this bed, all day. No worries, no drama. Just pure bliss. There were no patients needed attending, no nurses constantly bothering him, and no cases. It was just John and the bed. Wherever Sherlock was, he somewhere far away not bothering John to get up and help him solve a case or do an experiment with him or whatever else that madman wants at the moment. And if Sherlock shows his sorry arse, John will pointedly tell him to shove off. This is his day off and unless your John's very comfortable bed, _don't disturb him_. But John knew that, come tomorrow, when –because it's never 'if' with Sherlock Holmes– his flat mate calls him, John will groan, but inevitably roll out of bed and follow the idiot genius. And Sherlock knows it too. He knows that John can't stand a life without excitement –excitement that the Consulting Detective provides quite nicely. Of course, that doesn't mean John isn't entitled to at least _one _day where nothing of any importance happens. A day where he thinks nothing of work or murders or experiments and all he does is lounge on the mattress.

Hold on…

Hold on, are mattresses supposed to be moving? A continuous up and down action? John didn't think so. Mattresses were supposed to be still. And flat. Beds were supposed to be flat. John was not on a flat bed. Still, the doctor found he wasn't uncomfortable. Quite the opposite actually. But that stilled leaved the question as to where he was? Not his bed. His bed didn't have lumps. Someone else's bed? If so, whose?

John cast his mind back, trying to remember last night.

_Oh! Sherlock had a case! And… And he… He dragged me to…somewhere. _John concentrated on his deductions. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he could figure things out too. If only it wasn't morning. John could never think properly during the first hour of waking.

_So hotel. I'm in a hotel. Or, we're in a hotel? Sherlock must be here. He's the one who took me here, so it's only logical for him to be here too. Unless he already left. What time is it? _John didn't feel like opening his eyes to look just yet. _So he must be on the other side of the ro- Rain. Oh crap. It was raining. There was a leak. My bed was soaked. Oh dear Lord, please tell me…_

Slowly, John opened his eyes. The curtains were drawn, but the sun was peaking though little corners and slits. As John's eyes became adjusted to the lightening, he realized he was lying prone. That's strange. He normally lay on his back; he hating sleeping on his stomach. What's even stranger was that John found he didn't mind sleeping like this. He noticed his arm was resting right in front of him. He eyes guided up to his hand. It was resting on… On top of a… A chest. Which meant the 'pillow' John's forehead was resting against wasn't an actual pillow, was it…?

Suddenly, John's senses went into overdrive. Just like last night, the ex-army doctor was acutely aware of _everything_. Part of John was lying atop of a mound –a mound, which felt suspiciously like that of a body– and when he tilted his head just slightly back, he saw the outlines of a neck. The mattress had appeared to be moving because _it was_. To be precise, it was breathing. The sheet that John thought his leg was tangled up in was, in fact, another leg. Lanky, yet surprisingly strong arms were wrapped around him. Someone's hand rested on John's lower back, just above his plaid pants, while the other was splayed out on his upper back. Bracing himself, John searched for the face of the unknown man –the lack of breasts proved it was a male– and wasn't surprised to find Sherlock resting beneath him.

John's first instinct was to pull away. Apparently Sherlock's was to tighten his grip and pull John further into him.

"John," Sherlock moaned quietly into his ear. The named man tried to ignore the electricity that shivered down his spine. He tried to ignore the deep whispering voice and the hot breath that hit his ear. Unable to move the rest of his body, John tilted his head to look at Sherlock. His neck became stiff rather quickly, but he didn't lay it back down. Sherlock frowned at the abrupt lack of John under his jawline.

"John, I'm sleeping."

"Let me go Sherlock," John said just as quietly.

A pause. Then there was a firm, definite, "No."

John sputtered. "No?! Sher-"

"John," the detective interrupted firmly. His eyes were still shut, but his hand –the one on John's lower back– slipped beneath John's shirt. At the abrupt contact of cool skin, John gasped and his body did an involuntary jerk. He glared at the smirking man; John knew Sherlock didn't do that by accident. "John, aren't you always telling me to sleep?" Sherlock asked.

"…Yes," John started slowly. _Where is he going with this? _"Yes, Sherlock I am."

"Then it would be in my best interest for you not to move."

"That doesn't even make sense, Sherlock."

Distantly, John thought he should try to detach himself from Sherlock, but he made no effort to act upon these intensions.

"Just think for a moment, John," Sherlock said.

"Think about what? Sherlock, what are you getting at?"

A heavy sigh emitted from the detective. He slowly opened his eyes and stared into John's. "I was sleeping. Quiet peacefully."

It took a moment for John to comprehend what the man was saying. Having Sherlock look into John's eyes like that…

"Wait, you were sleeping?"

Sherlock nodded.

"On a case? You were sleeping while still on a case?" John clarified.

"Don't make me nod my head again."

John was torn. His friend was _finally _getting some decent rest, but lying like this –on top of Sherlock– was… It was… Well, John thought it was a very pleasant feeling; a feeling he knew he most certainly should _not_ be experiencing. Not after all those denials. These feelings…they scared John. But before he got the chance to think about what to do, Sherlock –who had closed his eyes again– reached and pulled John's head back under his neck.

"You don't want to get a stiff neck; that isn't a comfortable experience," he explained. He explained _right in John's ear_. Sherlock's lips faintly brushed against John's skin.

_Oh no… _John squirmed, trying desperately to get off of Sherlock. _This can't be happening. I'm so fu-_

"John, stop squirming," complained Sherlock. "How can anyone rest with someone moving on top of them like that?"

"Sherlock please let me go," John all but whimpers. He has to get off now. Right now. Oh God.

"I'm trying to sleep," Sherlock grumbled, his arms tightening around the smaller man. John jumped as icy finger brushed against his lower back, one of said fingers actually dipping down a fraction of an inch _into _his pants. John should not be feeling these feelings. He should _not be feeling this._

"Keep still," Sherlock ordered, his breath once again sending shivers down John's spine. It didn't help that the hand on John's neck was playing with his hair, lightly brushing the sensitive skin at the baseline of John's head.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John cried out. "I c-can't stay still with you breathing down my neck! And touching me like th-" John took an abrupt gasp of air; one he didn't need. Sherlock's lower hand had once again dipped down into John's pants.

"…Really?" Sherlock nuzzled his face deeper into John's neck, marveling at the sound John makes when he his breath hitches. "Interesting…" Sherlock tentatively licked the delicious neck in front of him. A combination of a whimper and a groan came out of John's mouth.

"What a-are you doing?" John stuttered.

"An experiment," Sherlock answered in a surprisingly seductive tone. (John didn't know if it was surprising that Sherlock could turn a phrase so plain into something so sexy or if it was the fact that John thought it was extremely attractive that was surprising.) He gave John's neck a gentle bite and was rewarded with a moan. Sherlock didn't need to see John's eyes to know they were rolled into the back of his head. "You can stop me whenever you like. Just say the word," Sherlock murmured into John's ear, noticing the man's vice grip on the front of Sherlock's shirt.

The only replying answer was John's heavy panting. He wasn't trying to get off Sherlock anymore, but he wasn't being very responsive either. Sherlock growled. The experiment was coming to a standstill. In order to get the ending results, John _had _to work with him. Either he will kick and scream, demanding for Sherlock to let him up this instant or so help him he will punch his ex-flat mate in the face; or John will cooperate with Sherlock's antics and…well Sherlock wasn't quite sure where this will all lead to. He was dreading the former option John might take, but what if John took the second option? Sherlock's never done anything like this before (and actually _meant_ it).

His first kiss was in college and he found that, while he enjoyed the males company more than the females, he really cared for neither sex. Both were especially dull and when the possibility of intercourse arises, Sherlock found the thought repulsive and nauseating. The only time he ever had a –somewhat– intimate moment with another human being was for getting back at his parents/brother as a teenager (the reason fluctuated depending on the day) or during a case when he needed to be manipulative. Sherlock's childhood beliefs on the subject had transferred over into his teenage and adult years.

Of course that was before ex-army doctor John Hamish Watson.

"You're different John," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands along John's back. "Everyone else is dull. Boring. Not you. Your-"

"OH, SOD IT!"

Suddenly, a warm hand was under Sherlock's neck, raising it; another hand was cupped under his chin. But that wasn't what surprised Sherlock. (Because it was the obvious action to take if John decided to conjoin with Sherlock.) No, what surprised Sherlock was the sudden shift in John's weight. Instead of lying on top of him, John was now _straddling _him. Something hard was being pressed into Sherlock and he found he liked the sensation very, very much.

The minute their lips touched, the world seemed to dissolve. That's not possible physically, but it did just the same. The kiss had started out rough, almost angry. But barley a second went by before John softened. Just like his lips. His lips were soft and moist. Sherlock liked that. He liked the feel of John's hand roaming his hair. He didn't realize John was slowly raises them into a sitting position until a warm hand slip up his shirt and explored his icy back.

Without bidding them to, Sherlock's lips opened. He wasn't sure why he decided to do that, but the moment John's tongue brushed his, Sherlock didn't care anymore. His breath hitched and he groaned into John's mouth as their tongues danced together. When John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, bringing his body closer to the detective's, Sherlock made a rather undignified noise that could be anything from a gasp to a whimper to a moan.

He wanted John closer to him. He wanted to merge their bodies together. Sherlock brought his knees up to a ninety degree angle, knowing that John's body would tilt farther into his. He didn't expect John to fall through. As they brushed against each other, Sherlock and John broke apart from kissing to arch their necks and moan simultaneously. Sherlock recovered first. He quickly slipped John's shirt off before pressing John's lips back to his; John's bare chest into his clad one. Sherlock wished his shirt was off. That was how these things went right? No shirt, no pants, no anything? As John bit Sherlock's tongue, the doctor undulated his hips against the detective's. Sherlock could feel John through his pajama bottoms; no doubt John could feel Sherlock. Both men wishing fervently that the fabric would disappear.

Was it supposed to take this long? Sherlock couldn't wait anymore. He had (unknowingly) waited thirty-six years for John Watson and he couldn't wait a second longer. With a frustrated growl, Sherlock flipped John over so he was lying on his back. John shuddered and sighed breathlessly as Sherlock straddled him and kissed his neck. It wasn't like before though. This time, Sherlock's tongue was doing most of the work, along with a few teeth. One of Sherlock's hands was resting on John's chest, playing with his nipple. That was the final straw. If Sherlock was still wearing a shirt in five seconds, there would be hell to pay.

With one hand still on his chest, Sherlock moved his other slowly down John's chest. As it got to the soft hair under the bellybutton, John immediately stopped trying to take Sherlock's shirt off. Sherlock continued to play with the happy trail, watching John's face in utter delight.

After a few moments, John breathed out, "Don't. Tease. Sherlock."

The way the doctor said his name made Sherlock want him even more. (How is that possible? Discover reasons later.) Sherlock grinned. As he moved up to kiss John more, his hand moved down. Kissing John's jaw and neck, Sherlock grabbed the plaid pants by the waist band. His fingers felt the outline of John's hip bones. The skin was hot and soft and Sherlock began pulling down–

"Room service!"

Both men jumped as the hotel manager walked in cheerfully. Mr. Freeh was a short man with red hair, green eyes, and the absolute _worst _timing.

"Oh!" Mr. Freeh looked at the two men in front of them; one blushing fiercely, the other glaring so forcefully that if looks could kill, Mr. Freeh would be one dead hotel manager. "Oh boys," he giggled. Placing a plate of food down on the nearest drawer, he turned to leave. "Have fun for me!" He called out before shutting the door.

There was a moment of silent stillness. Sherlock broke it first, his voice dripping with anger and lust.

"Well, now that _he's _gone…"

But John pushed him away, his face still bright red. "No." Somehow he wriggled out from beneath Sherlock.

"No?" Sherlock frowned.

John, now standing a few steps away from the foot of the bed, shook his head firmly. But Sherlock could see the signs of arousal written all over John's body. It took him only a few seconds to figure it out.

"There's no need to be embarrassed, John." Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed so he could sit up properly.

"Who ordered room service?" John asked, trying to change the subject.

"Don't be so suspicious, John." Sherlock tried to reach for the man, but John was (unfortunately) out of his reach. "It's only food; it's not like he's going to kill us."

At that, John's eyes went sharp. (Well, as sharp as they could get while still under the influence of hot, deep arousal.) "Who said anything about killing?"

Sherlock blinked. Had he…? Oh. He had forgotten. "I– Erm. I solved the case, John."

"…It wasn't Mr. Freeh was it?"

"How did you know?" Sherlock cocked his head inquisitively. John tried not to throw himself upon the man. Sherlock didn't realize that practically everything he did was so _intoxicating_.

"I didn- Wait, so he did? He's the murderer?!" John looked at the door, imagining scenarios where the manager came back and gutted John and Sherlock in the same manner as Mr. Nepley. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"Oh he's not going to kill _us_. Don't be absurd, John."

John, who was still watching the door, didn't see Sherlock stand up. It wasn't until the detective's arms wrapped around his chest and hips did John notice the man at all. He jumped as Sherlock began playing with the strings on his pajamas.

"How-" John's voice came out a few octaves higher than normal. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "How do you know?"

"That he won't kill us?" Sherlock asked, nipping John's ear. How can Sherlock make that sound so endearing? It took all of John's willpower not to let his legs buckle underneath him. "Simple. He wasn't trying to court us."

"So…he had a thing for Mr. Nepley?" John swayed a bit, but managed not to collapse. It was a wonder he could hear Sherlock over his racing heart.

"Yes," Sherlock began rubbing John's shoulder and exposed hip bone. John failed to bite back his moan. "Come to bed," Sherlock whispered. He started to pull John's pants down again when the doctor suddenly came back to his senses and scrambled out of Sherlock's grasp.

"I- I can't," John breathed out. "Not when… You know."

Sherlock pouted, "No, I don't know." He sounded like a child who didn't understand why the kitten wouldn't come when called.

"I'm not-" John lowered his voice to a harsh whisper "-doing anything in this hotel while a murderer is in charge of it."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "John, I told you he isn't going to kill-"

"That's not the point!" John hissed. "I can't do anything intimate with you while I know there's a murder in the same building!"

"Yet you'd get naked to take a shower," Sherlock pointed out in annoyance.

For a second, John faltered. But then he was back to angry/embarrassed/yet-still-aroused John. "I'm not even going to ask," he said shaking his head. He grabbed a fistful of clothes from his bag –two shirts, jeans, three socks, no jumper, no pants Sherlock noted– and stormed into the bathroom. "You might as well text Lestrade," he said before shutting the door.

An hour later, John stepped out of his cold shower feeling…actually not feeling any better. He could hear voices, one of which being Lestrade.

_Good,_ he thought. _Now Mr. Nepley's soul can rest in peace…or something. _

John dried himself off and reached for his clothes. He wondered idly what Sherlock told the Met. How he figured out who gutted the victim, why he gutted the victim, stuff like that. He reached for some pants only to realize he didn't bring any. No jumpers either. John let out a frustrated sigh before slipping into the jeans.

As he walked out, Sherlock –without even pausing in his conversation with Donavan– gave John a look that told him Sherlock knew exactly what was underneath John's jeans. Or, more accurately, what _wasn't _underneath. John ignored him, taking to stuffing his clothes into the little knapsack he brought.

_Only a few hours, _he told himself. _Then Sherlock and I will be alone, in our flat, and… _John trailed off. He couldn't afford to think such things while others were around. After adamantly saying for years he wasn't gay, pouncing on Sherlock in front of everybody wouldn't be the best way to have the truth come out.

Turns out, it wasn't a few hours. It was, in fact, ten. Approximately, two hours of convincing the Met that Mr. Freeh killed Mr. Nepley; five hours of chasing down Mr. Freeh; one hour of giving their statements; and one hour of being stuck in traffic. Give or take. All that really matters is that Sherlock and John finally arrived at their flat at eight o'clock on the dot. But the universe wasn't going to make it be easy for them, was it?

Mrs. Hudson was making tea for a few friends of hers and invited Sherlock and John to come over. They said yes, thinking it wouldn't be long, but ended up staying for two hours. Finally, after solving the case, finishing the case, Mrs. Hudson's friends finally left, and Mrs. Hudson was fast asleep, John and Sherlock were alone. It was nearly eleven.

In the kitchen, John had just finished typing in his blog about the latest case, which he titled 'To Love a Fish' since everything about the case had something to do with the aquatic creatures: Mr. Nepley was gutted in the exact way one would for a fish, statues and pictures of various fish decorated the hotel to the point of obsession, and Mr. Freeh had loved Mr. Nepley despite his seafood allergies and the fact he was married with kids. The post was rather short, but that was because John left out some details. Like how the hotel's roof wasn't leak-proof, John had another nightmare, and Sherlock was amazing in bed. Things like that were left out of the blog.

"John," a voice whispered in his ear, a hand snaked across his chest. "Mrs. Hudson is finally asleep." Another hand closed the laptop.

"Is she now?" John asked, his voice surprisingly even.

Sherlock hummed in response. "And she won't be waking for a while, either."

"She- What did you do?" John immediately stood up and turned to face the man, only to be pressed against the counter by a (tall, elegant, cold) body.

"Knew that would get you to stand," Sherlock stated smugly before bringing his lips to John's. His icy hands slid up John's shirt and began playing with his shoulder blades. John grabbed a fistful of hair and glided in tongue into Sherlock's mouth as a response.

"Arrogant nutter," he said, but John was smiling.

After a few minutes, John began guiding Sherlock toward his room. It took ages to get up the stairs, which was now decorated with their shirts, socks, and shoes. They had begun wrestling with each other's zippers when they tripped over one another's feet, landing on the bed, John atop Sherlock.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled slyly. Before John could even blink, he was back on his back. Sherlock leaned over him, using one arm as a brace while the other one expertly (John wasn't sure he wanted to know how) undid his zipper and button. Sherlock leaned forward, brushing their chests together; reminding John that he had no pants on underneath his jeans…and that Sherlock knew this too.

"As long as it's with you, I'm sure," Sherlock cooed into John's ear. "Now where were we?" He pushed open the zipper and slid his fingers to the side of John's pants, outlining his hip bone. Slowly, he started to reach further down. The leisurely speed irritated John. He pulled Sherlock's head into his own, causing their bodies to press tightly together.

"Stop. Teasing. Me," John muttered between kisses.

So Sherlock did.


End file.
